Джон Болл - Phase Three Alert

He read on before he continued. “Pedersen is very concerned about rabies, of course. Besides the face, she was bitten in two other places.”

“Did he give her a Pasteur shot?”

Markley nodded. “Yes, and we’ll continue the series, of course, but that three-day interval before she was treated has got me scared.”

Bowditch saw no reason not to state it plainly. “With a bite on the face, that close to the brain, the incubation could be fairly rapid, too. And I don’t see any way to get the head of the dog for lab work. They may not know which one it was that actually bit her.”

“There may have been more than one, since there was a pack. Bob, I think we’ll have to assume that the animal was rabid, since sixty percent of them are. Go ahead and get those lacerations cleaned up, irrigated, and sutured. Meanwhile, I’ll try to get her stabilized.”

“Right.” Bowditch began his careful, skilled work while his patient was still well under the merciful influence of the Demerol. For close to an hour he repaired the damage as continuous information on her vital signs was supplied to him. When he had done everything that he could at that stage, he emerged from the operating room to find Colonel Kleckner waiting outside. Scott Ferguson was there too, and three of the men from Det. 4.

Bowditch dropped into a chair and removed his surgeon’s mask so that he could talk more easily. Like Ferguson, he was also a very young man, slender almost to the point of being lean, but he knew his profession and he had the hands to practice it. “I’m damn glad that you got her in here tonight,” he said. “If you hadn’t, it might have been a lot worse. I’ve just cleaned up all of the lacerations. At her age, and in her general physical condition, they shouldn’t cause too many problems.”

“How about rabies?” the colonel asked.

“The question is whether Dr. Pedersen saw her in time. She was bitten on the face more than three days ago, which may have injected the virus very close to the brain. Frankly, Herb and I are very worried about that.”

“If she has it, what are her chances?” Ferguson asked.

“To be honest, very poor. Rabies in humans has always been considered to be a hundred percent fatal, but there is a treatment now and a recovery was reported in 1971. We’re going to give it everything we’ve got.”

The colonel was visibly concerned. “How about it, Bob, are we equipped to use that procedure here if it becomes necessary? If not, the moment the weather permits I’ll have her transported in the C-130 to any facility you specify.”

Ferguson didn’t wait to let the surgeon answer. “If it’s critical, we can get out of here tonight. We have the range to clear this storm and lift her directly to Walter Reed or wherever you say. Shall we get ready?”

Bowditch quickly shook his head. “I don’t think she should be moved, and we have almost everything here. We’re going to watch her on a minute-by-minute basis; if she shows any signs of going into fasciculation, then I’m sure that Herb will immobilize her. If it gets that far, then our respirator won’t be adequate; we’ll have to have a Bennett MA-1. They’ve got one at Dronning Ingrid’s Hospital in Godthaab. We can ask for it along with a catastrophic team; there’ll be time enough for that.”

“Will they respond?” the colonel asked.

“Absolutely. The patient is a Greenlander, which means a lot to them. But they would come anyway.”

Throughout the rest of the night an intense watch was kept over the tiny Eskimo girl; Markley broke his sleep three times to check on her condition and to instruct Captain Debra Lyons, who was continuously at her bedside. Fortunately, the only other patient in the hospital was an Army man recuperating from a cracked rib, and his condition imposed no problems.

At 1100 hours the following morning Linda Dashner, who had taken over from the night nurse, noticed that her patient coughed twice within five minutes. Normally that would not have unduly concerned her, but because she knew exactly what to watch for, she called the doctor.

Markley responded quickly and examined Bebiane’s throat for visible evidence of soreness. “I’ve got to talk to her,” he said. “Some of the Danes here can speak Eskimo; I need one as soon as possible. Commander Kure will know.”

Linda left quickly and picked up the nearest phone. Fifteen minutes later Karsten Thorlund appeared at the door of the sickroom. “You speak Eskimo?” Markley asked.

The Dane nodded. “That I do.”

“Good. Introduce yourself and explain that I want her to answer some questions.”

The internist could not understand a word that was spoken, but he saw that communications had been established. “Does your throat feel sore?” he asked through the interpreter.

His little patient slowly nodded her head.

He smiled at her. “How about something to eat? We have good food here.”

After that had been translated, the child rolled her head a minimum amount on the pillow. Markley looked at Linda. “Note loss of appetite.” Then he turned back to Bebiane. “Do you have a headache?” he asked.

This time the answer came verbally. “She says a little,” Thorlund translated.

“Ask her if she has any feeling of nausea.”

“Doctor, she may not know what that means.”

“Then ask her if her stomach feels all right.”

Thorlund took longer to get the answer to that. “She does not feel good, but she says that is because she hurts all over. She asks that her father not kill the dogs because they will be needed this winter.”

Markley drew Linda aside. “Watch for any indications that she is unduly sensitive to either noise or light. Also, I want you to offer her a drink of water, milk, or whatever at least every half hour. I want to know if she accepts any liquids, or if she displays definite rejection. And if you note any excess salivation, notify me at once.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“I will stay,” Thorlund volunteered. “It may help her to talk to someone. And if she wishes to say something to the nurse, I can translate.”

“Thank you — I much appreciate it.”

“I do not mind, doctor; there is no place to got.”

When the lunch tray arrived, the child perked up and ate a little. After that she rested quietly until shortly after 1500 hours; then she motioned to the man who could understand her and made a request. Thorlund translated for the nurse. “She says that the light in the ceiling is hurting her eyes. She asks that you turn it off.”

Linda stepped to the switch and obliged. She checked her patient to be sure that she was all right, then she stepped out and called Markley at once. As soon as the internist had that fresh bit of news, he picked up his phone and dialed Weather. “What are the chances of getting a flight in here tomorrow if we have to?” he asked.

“Tomorrow should be all right,” the duty forecaster told him. “We expect diminished winds, well below Phase Alert. However, we have another storm coming in, probably in a day or two.”

“Thank you.” That much, at least, had been good news. The doctor hung up for a moment and then called the base operator. “I want to talk to Dronning Ingrid’s Hospital at Godthaab,” he said. “Medical priority.”

“Right. Call you back, sir.”

Markley crossed to Bowditch’s office to fill his colleague in. “Right now it doesn’t look too good,” he said. “She’s got a slight sore throat, very little appetite, and she just asked to have the ceiling light in her room turned off.”

Bowditch considered that. “Indicative,” he agreed, “but fortunately not conclusive. She was pretty badly mauled and she had a rough time of it until Pedersen was able to give her that Demerol. Then she had a Pasteur shot, and I did quite a bit of work on her. All that could cause a loss of appetite and contribute to a sore throat. And she may simply have gotten tired of staring up at that light.”